


Failure in Strategic Retreats

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Come Swallowing, Comeplay, F/M, Game Spoilers, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14614.html?thread=57686806#t57686806">prompt</a>: <i>"Solas knows that he really, really ought to be careful in bed, but he just can't stop himself..."</i></p><p>It all comes down to self-restraint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure in Strategic Retreats

**Author's Note:**

> y'all asked and you give me life

The first time was almost forgivable because it was the _first_. She was so eager, earnest, held him tight like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world. A firestorm on the battlefront but under his touch she _softened_ , let go. She kissed like a girl in love, and it ruined him.

He didn’t realize he came inside her until after the fact. A one-time slipup, he insisted internally, although a prickling guilt still stabbed at the back of his mind. A failure in strategic retreats. He would be careful next time. Vigilant.

The second time was less forgivable.

They’d managed to sneak in a clandestine meeting between a shared mountain of urgent requests; a rare private moment safely locked in her chambers. Those encounters were his favorite—when they were finally able to remove themselves from the chaos around them, when he could undress her slowly, deliberately, run his fingertips over the wandering web-work of fractured tattoos wrapped around her hips and spilling down her thighs. He’d take time to trace the hollows of her collarbones with a deft tongue, trail feather-light kisses up her throat as she dug nails into his flesh and hummed pleased approval. These were the moments Lavellan was the most vulnerable, stripped down and soft and _real_. She wasn’t the Inquisitor here, was no one’s reluctant Herald; she was _Lilith,_ bright and ferocious and _his,_ if only for the moment.

She sat astride him on the bed; lowered herself gradually onto his cock with half-lidded golden eyes, and he felt her slowly stretch around him. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, letting a sharp “ _ah!_ ” escape when she slid down too fast, too full. He went slow with her—moved in careful, shallow thrusts, kept a guiding hand pressed to the curve of her waist, the other supporting her quaking thigh until she sat fully back in his lap. He tried to still her stuttering hips, keep it _slow,_ but she pulled herself up into a kiss with a hand at the back of his neck, and he was lost.

He knew he should have stopped. Knew it, even in the instant it happened. But pulling out would have meant separating from her; would mean prying his hands off of her and making her _stop,_ and Creator, Maker, _whoever was listening_ help him, because he could not do it. She quickened her pace, taking him deeper, faster; mumbled half-words against his throat, pleas or threats or just quiet, needful noises as he steadily fucked her. He should have stopped. Knew he should have stopped, but… She gasped, rhythm faltering, and curled into his shoulder as he held her tight and spilled inside her. As the hazy wave of bliss ebbed, Solas could only think, _“Not again.”_

Lilith draped herself contentedly atop him, limp and sated, and he felt the warm ooze of his misjudgment leaking onto his thigh. Wonderful. “Apologies,” he muttered, already concocting acts of penance. Lavellan only snickered.

“If you’re worried about accidental baby-making, don’t. We’re fine. Trust me; there can’t be any more than one of me in the world.”

“You’re sure about that?” he tested thinly.

“No, I’m lying to you. I’m secretly all _about_ babies. Shit, let’s have seven. One for each day of the week. Just be sure to let Josie know so she can schedule it in.”

He supposed he set himself up for that. Still, though—a chance was a chance, and this more than anything was not one he could afford to take.  After all, there was a war raging around them, a sky torn asunder, another blight waiting to resurface, and then _he_ …well. Solas was hardly qualified, in his expert opinion, to be responsible for the care of another person. He hadn’t had much experience with actual _children,_ necessarily, but elven gods were essentially the same thing, and _that_ fiasco had been very poorly handled, to say the least. No, next time would be better. This could not happen again. He would just be more careful.

The third time was like a slap to the face. He’d had perfect control of the situation—Lavellan was face down, bent over the table, his hands firm on her hips, a steadying pressure. Lilith was many things, but patient was not one of them—if he didn’t hold her steady, she was liable to do his work for him. As it was she squirmed beneath him, pressed back until the head of his cock slid between her labia. He should have been more attentive. _Careful_. But he made the grave mistake of looking down, watching himself disappear into her with a slow, aching _push_. And suddenly he was caught up in the dimples on her back, each raised vertebrae in the curve of her spine, the obscene way she wiggled her ass back against him like she needed more, _deeper,_ groaned some prayer or curse as he tilted his hips just so and angled into that elusive spot that made her toes curl. A few well-timed thrusts had her screaming, gibbering broken strings of obscenities. A hard push scooched her further up the table, knocked over a stack of books, and he felt the very _core_ of her tighten around him, pulling him to the brink. He had the perfect opportunity to stop, pull out; had planned to, honestly, but then she tossed her head back and _growled,_ “ _Pala em elvar’el!_ ”

And that was it. He was done. He came harder than expected, _quicker_ than expected, fingertips locked digging bruises into her hips as he spilled deep inside of her. For an instant he swore the world went white—and then reality descended.

This was getting ridiculous. Embarrassing, really. The true indignity was that he was emphatically _too old_ for this. Maybe as a young man—a _very_ young man—when he was less practiced, less _patient_. But now… He was patient. Restrained. Unmovable. He was _better_. Or, he was supposed to be.

The whole affair was made entirely worse when a boneless Lavellan slid a finger into the slick mess between her thighs, brought it to her lips, and slowly licked it clean. “I don’t know, I think I like it better this way,” she decided, then added with a wink, “Gives me something to remember you by.”

This, he realized, was not something he was prepared for. A test of self-restraint, he supposed. A very, very sinister test. “Out of curiosity,” he tested. “Do you actually speak Elven, or have you just memorized various dirty phrases?”

And she answered in perfect Elvish, “ _I’m going to ride you harder than a Chantry trail to Denerim._ ”

Ah. Right, then.

The fourth time was entirely not his fault. Mostly. He really had meant to stop. Was in the process of _stopping,_ even;had already begun to pull out when Lilith locked her legs around his waist. Apparently his torment was amusing. She rocked her weight, fell heavily to one side and rolled them until he found himself flat on his back, Lavellan straddling his hips atop him.

“ _Lilith,_ ” he warned.

Wide eyes sparkling, she answered with a purred, “ _Solas_.” And he knew even then it was the end. She fucked him mercilessly, lifting up on trembling thighs to slide back down his swollen length in quick, rhythmic bursts. He came embarrassingly quickly, and she slowed to a languid grind as she rode him through the aftershocks. As he laid there, internally cursing himself for not foreseeing this exact outcome, Lavellan sat, hands splayed across his chest, and ground her dripping cunt against his thigh. “Sorry, did you want this back?”

“You,” he informed, “are not helping.”

“I told you,” she maintained, teetering on exasperation. “You’re off the hook. I don’t procreate. So stop looking for things to brood about and enjoy how _great_ that was, will you?”

“Did the Dalish tell you that?”

Her crooked smile immediately soured. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Not the time, a part of him insisted. Not the time, not the time, not the ti- “I think the Dalish have a tenuous grasp of modern medicine, and so it is possible you may be uninformed.”

“I’m not.” she stated sharply. “Fuck you very much.”

He almost commented on the absurdity of saying that while his cock presently grew soft inside her, but decided one stupid remark was probably enough for the night. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly,” she agreed, but the icy sheen in her eyes broke with a wicked grin. “You know, if you’re really that worried, why don’t you clean it up yourself?”

He would admit, that was a first.

He’d never tasted himself before. On her back, legs dropped open, Lavellan looked up beneath lashes and watched him disappear between her legs. He buried his face between her spread thighs, lapping a lazy stripe over swollen lips before ever-so-lightly circling her clit with the tip of his tongue. A satisfied _hum_ resonated deep in her chest, fingers starting to claw into the sheets, as his tongue delved inside her. He worked her open with two slick fingers when his mouth shifted focus to the delicate inside of her thigh, and the touch earned a delighted gasp from the elf beneath him. Fingers smoothing over her slick-coated inner walls, he pressed his tongue back to her clit just as she shuddered to climax.

Afterward she pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss, and he felt her tongue sweep over his teeth, tasting. _Savoring_. She was the first to break, and Solas was glad for it—he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop otherwise. If she’d let him he was sure he’d devour her whole.

She pulled him down beside her onto a tangle of blankets and settled against his chest, content for the moment. He found she liked to sleep with her face pressed snug to the curve of his throat. Maybe because she savored the nearness; found comfort in the beat of his pulse. Maybe because it put her teeth closest to his jugular. He would hardly doubt either motivation. “So as for baby names,” she mused aloud, “I’m thinking we’ll need something unique. Something really meaningful. Maybe Dragon-Fucker.”

He gave a heavy sigh, but ultimately relented. “Dragon-Fucker Lavellan? Is that not too subtle?”

“You’re right. People need to get an immediate idea of what a nightmare this fictional kid is.”

Fictional. Yes. His arm reflexively tightened around her. “Perhaps ‘Vivienne,’ then.”

“Oh, that’s _rude_. There should be a ‘Madame’ in there somewhere.” She giggled; mumbled something sleepily against him, but his attention had wandered. Pulled elsewhere. A reality that would never exist, in a timeline where history went differently. Just a slipup, he affirmed. A failure in strategic retreats.

He would be careful next time.


End file.
